Danger Night
by Amiyrasmom
Summary: A follow up to The Burning. How did Sherlock react to the news of John's injury? Warnings for mentions of drugs. Honey 'Verse


**Disclaimer: Still not mine. Though I have written to the Easter Bunny. Hopefully he likes me better than Santa does.**

**A/N: Warning…again. There are mentions of drug use and drugs in this chapter. This story takes place when Sherlock finds out that John has been shot in Afghanistan. **

The pounding on the door at 2 a.m. had the entire family jumping from their beds and sprinting to investigate. New Scotland Yard Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade pushed his wife, Joanne and his teenage son, Ben back into the parlor while he cracked open the door.

"Sherlock, what are you doing here at 2:04 in the bloody morning?" Greg croaked out, his voice harsh with sleep, when he recognized the man standing before him in the dim light of the street lamps.

"I…I…Greg?" Sherlock's voice was hoarse but Greg could hear the undertone of loss and fear. "I don't…I can't…How…What?" Sherlock's voice faded again.

Greg felt his heart drop and dread curl in his stomach. Even in the darkest days of Sherlock's addiction and withdrawal Greg had never heard the younger man so lost or broken. He reached over and flipped on the porch light. Greg bit back a gasp at the sight before him. Sherlock was paler than Greg had ever seen him and he was trembling violently, his entire body looked as though it was vibrating and his eyes were just as lost and broken as his voice. "Get in here," he ordered, fear making his voice even rougher, and pulled the other man into the house by the arm.

Sherlock came docilely enough which just worried Greg more. His eyes, wide and pupils blown, blinked in the sudden light as Joanne flipped the switch for the light in the entry way. "Sherlock?" She asked quietly. "Are you alright, dearest?" Sherlock made no response. He just kept blinking his eyes and staring off into the distance.

"Uncle Sherlock?" Ben joined the crowd in the hallway. His fifteen year old eyes stared at his honorary uncle and then narrowed in suspicion. "Are you high again?"

Ben's harsh question seemed to shake Sherlock out of whatever trance he'd been in. He stared at the boy, opened his mouth, closed it, cleared his throat and tried again. "No, Ben, I'm not high. I wouldn't allow you to see me high. I never have." His voice was rough and oddly muffled though it was the first time he'd been coherent since Greg had opened the door.

Joanne pushed past her husband and son and took Sherlock by the hand to lead him into the parlor. "You're hands are like ice, dearest. Sherlock, what's going on? Would you like some tea?" Her question seemed to pain him, if his wince was any indication, and she made him sit on the sofa while she knelt in front of him and chafed his wrist to get some blood moving through his icy cold body. She stopped when she felt the paper clutched in his hands. "What's this?" She asked and removed the paper. She smoothed it out and discovered that it was an envelope addressed to Mr. Sherlock Watson-Holmes from Her Majesty's Royal Army. "Oh…oh no! Oh God!" She dropped his hand and covered her mouth while her blue eyes went wide and filled with tears as she stared horrified at the envelope.

"What? Jo? What's going on?" Greg barked out. Joanne would have been able to spot if Sherlock had taken anything but she'd made no indication that he was drugged up. And she was now clutching something in one hand her other hand trembling over her lips.

"Mum?" Ben questioned, his voice worried. "What's wrong with Uncle Sherlock?"

Joanne opened her mouth to answer him but no sound came out and so she simply held the envelope out to Greg with her hands shaking violently and sobs racking her slender frame.

"I…I couldn't…couldn't open it," Sherlock stumbled over his words and shook his head in frustration at his own inability to force his brain to reboot. If this was what shock felt like then he didn't like it one bit. He did understand the blankets better though. He'd give just about anything for something soft and warm to keep the rest of the world at bay for a while. Anything to delay this a little longer.

When he'd seen the two officers from his window at the flat his magnificent brain had crashed to a halt and no thoughts at all had occurred since. All he could do was feel. Feel the fear and the ache of loss. He couldn't take this. It hurt. Hurt more than anything ever had. How was he supposed to stop the pain?

He didn't know how he'd come into possession of the envelope that would end his world. He didn't know what he'd said to the officers or what they'd said to him. He could remember walking, stumbling through the fog with the envelope crumpled in his fist. He wasn't sure how long he'd wandered or what he'd done though he could tell that he hadn't turned back to the drugs, not yet anyway. He knew he would though. Without John there was no reason for anything.

He didn't know how he'd managed to make his way to the Lestrade's home but he was secretly glad he had. Joanne had taken his hand again and her tight grip was helping to ground him. Not as well as John's always had but enough that he could at least process his surroundings again.

Ben, horrified, collapsed next to Sherlock and held onto his arm. "Oh no," he breathed. "Uncle John."

Greg took the envelope from Joanne with his own trembling hands. "Why didn't Mycroft warn you?" He hissed. He braced his legs. There was no way he was going to read this letter sitting down. He'd need to collapse when he was done.

"Mycroft and A are at a summit in Russia. Have been all week. No outside communication allowed." Sherlock spoke rapidly, forcing the words past frozen vocal cords and stiff lips. "And he's not as worried about me as he was. I've been clean for five years next month. And he says you keep enough of an eye on me to keep me from getting sh…sh…hurt or ki…kil…" Sherlock swallowed. Those two words couldn't make it through the obstructions in his throat. He could barely even think them. "He's only been checking the CCTV cameras once a week. And he only comes by occasionally now. Though he texts a few times a week."

"Figures, the one time you really need him and he's nowhere to be found" Greg snorted turning the envelope over and over in his hands.

"Please, Dad, just open it." Ben begged. He buried his head in Sherlock's shoulder trying to hide from the contents of the letter. Sherlock wished he could, too.

"Christ. Right." Greg ripped open the envelope and flipped the official army paper open, hoping that this was like ripping off a plaster, if he did it fast enough it wouldn't hurt as much, even knowing that it wasn't true. His eyes skimmed over the words and he sighed in relief before reading it aloud.

He skipped over all the greeting and salutations. "Captain John Watson has been wounded in the line of duty. While his wounds are severe we expect him to make at least a partial recovery. At present his health is too precarious to move him however as soon as his strength has returned he will be shipped home. Hear that, Sherlock? He's still alive." Greg collapsed in an armchair and grinned in relief.

"Oh, thank God," Joanne dropped her head onto Sherlock's leg and sobbed for a moment. "Tea. I need tea. Anyone else? And your pants taste like fog." Her voice was muffled.

"You sound like John," Sherlock snorted weakly, his eyes suspiciously bright.

Joanne grinned. "Your point?" She patted his shoulder as she stood from her kneeling position and moved into the kitchen to make everyone some tea.

"None for me, Mum." Ben called after her. "I'm glad Uncle John's okay, Uncle Sherlock," Ben gave him a one armed hug and wiped his eyes before standing and stretching. "I'm going back to bed. I have school tomorrow." He left down the hall and Sherlock and Greg heard his bedroom door close.

Greg and Sherlock sat in silence for a few minutes, both of them coming down from the adrenaline. "You'll stay here tonight." It was almost an order.

"I wouldn't want—"

"Listen to Greg, Sherlock," Joanne said as she reentered the room and handed each man a cup of steaming tea. "You don't need to be on your own tonight. And you are not imposing; you know you're always welcome here. I'll go get you some blankets and a pillow. I'd offer you Colleen's room but it's full of boxes at the moment and it's too early in the morning to move all of them off of the bed."

"The sofa is fine, Joanne," Sherlock consented with a wry smile. Arguing with Joanne was impossible. The woman simply didn't listen to dissenting opinions when it came to the welfare and health of her friends and family.

Silence filled the room again as the two men sipped at their tea. Joanne came back a few minutes later, arms loaded with blankets and pillows. She shooed Sherlock off of the sofa into an armchair next to Greg and quickly made him up a bed. "Don't stay up too much longer with Sherlock, Greg. You do have work tomorrow." She pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "Sleep well, dearest." She bussed Greg's cheek on her way out of the room.

"Lestrade?" Greg didn't think he'd ever heard Sherlock uncertain before.

"Yes, Sherlock?" He kept his voice soft hoping not to scare the younger man, not after the night he'd had.

Instead of answering Sherlock stood from the armchair and removed his Belstaff coat, laying it over the back of the chair before turning back to Greg and thrusting something out at him. Greg took the object and looked down at it as Sherlock curled up on the sofa. "Oh, Sherlock. Why?" The object was a small baggie of heroin and a syringe. To Greg's experienced eye there was enough heroin in the bag for at least five hits. Or one large overdose.

"I don't even remember buying it." Sherlock confessed softly. "I don't remember much of anything between the officers arriving at the flat and standing on your doorstep."

Greg sighed. He couldn't help but believe Sherlock. "Heroin isn't normally you're drug of choice is it?"

"No."

"Then can you tell me why now?" Greg had a suspicion but wanted Sherlock to confirm it.

"I do not believe I am capable of living in a world without him in it." Sherlock's voice was quiet and sad, and that was his only answer.

One large overdose then, Greg decided. "And you're giving it to me because…?"

"I do not trust myself to toss it out. And John's not d…d…gone so I don't need it."

"I'll take care of it, Sherlock." Greg assured him. He wouldn't report this either. One moment of weakness where Sherlock didn't even use the drugs wasn't worth arresting him over. And he couldn't identify the dealer anyway because of his mental state at the time.

Greg stood to leave the room, flush the heroin and go back to bed. The younger man would be all right now. "Greg?" Sherlock's voice filled the silent room as Greg turned off the lights. "Thank you."

Greg knew Sherlock wasn't just thanking him for taking away the drugs but for being here, opening the letter and a thousand other things that Sherlock never remembered to be grateful for. "Always, Sherlock."


End file.
